It was 1990 and yes, you heard that right. There was still a blacksson sign hanging in the window of Web’s Diner. But here’s the thing most people don’t understand. That sign wasn’t about exclusion in the way you might think. That sign was about protection, about history, about a statement that Marcus Webb had every right to make.
You see, that diner had been in Marcus’s family since 1947, passed down from his grandfather, who had scraped together every penny he had to buy that property when black folks couldn’t eat in most establishments in the South. Marcus’s grandfather, Samuel Webb, had put up that original sign not as an act of reverse discrimination, but as an act of defiance and dignity.
In a world that had told him he wasn’t welcome, he created a space where he was not just welcome, but sovereign. And when Marcus inherited that diner in 1985, he kept the sign up. partly as a tribute to his grandfather, partly as a reminder of history, and partly I think because it filtered out the kind of customers who would have a problem with what that sign represented.
I was working as a traveling insurance salesman back then, and I’d been coming to Web’s Diner for about 2 years. Marcus made the best peach cobbler I’d ever tasted, and his wife Diane could fry chicken that would make you want to slap your grandmother. Respectfully, of course.
I was one of maybe three white customers who regularly ate there, and that was only because Marcus’s cousin had vouched for me after I’d helped him with a difficult insurance claim. Marcus didn’t advertise the place, didn’t try to attract outside business. He didn’t need to. The black community in that area kept Web’s Diner running just fine.
Now, on this particular Tuesday in August 1990, I was sitting at the counter enjoying a plate of Dian’s smothered pork chops when the bell above the door chimed. I didn’t look up right away. I was too focused on my food. But I felt the atmosphere in the room change. You know that feeling when everyone around you suddenly goes quiet? That collective intake of breath? That’s what happened.
I looked up and there he was, Clint Eastwood, standing in the doorway like he’d just walked off a movie set. Now, I’d seen plenty of famous people before. Birmingham wasn’t Hollywood, but we got our share of celebrities passing through. But there was something different about seeing Clint Eastwood in person. The man had a presence that filled the room without him saying a word.
